


wings of wax (or endless mountains)

by littlesnowpea



Series: baby maybe (i'm a piece of art) [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Best Ink AU, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 12:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14355114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: So that was what Brendon had. Patrick, who he clung to, his music, which was his whole life, Chicago, which was the only place he'd ever felt at home, and his senior seminar, where the drummer with the beard always critiqued Brendon’s thesis.The drummer with the beard was named Spencer, and he was actually the root of every single issue Brendon had.





	wings of wax (or endless mountains)

**Author's Note:**

> and now a little something for the brencers in the back.....
> 
> lol remember when i said only gold was a one shot? i'm a filthy liar apparently. i didn't mean to write this. i don't know what happened. 
> 
> i wish there was an ao3 tag for "brendon urie is a human disaster"

It wasn’t Brendon’s fault that he latched on to anyone that was even slightly kind to him. 

Okay, well, maybe it was, but he couldn’t actually help it. His desperate clinging probably required several years of therapy to adequately deal with, but Brendon didn’t have therapy. Brendon had the music program at De Paul, an apartment that he shared with seven other guys, his guitar, and Patrick. 

Although with Patrick came Pete, so Brendon really had two people he could call family, once Pete stopped absolutely hating him. It was pretty par for the course. Brendon couldn’t force himself to be any less annoying. 

Having Patrick was probably the best thing in his life. His parents disowned him and Brendon shared the living room with two of his roommates, mattress pressed against the baseboard heater. The heat fucked with his voice, so sometimes, if he was really lucky, he slept on Patrick’s couch. 

Pete and Patrick’s couch. 

Patrick always told him Pete really did like him, that Pete was just putting up a front, but Brendon didn’t really believe him.

So that was what Brendon had. Patrick, who he clung to, his music, which was his whole life, Chicago, which was the only place he'd ever felt at home, and his senior seminar, where the drummer with the beard always critiqued Brendon’s thesis. 

The drummer with the beard was named Spencer, and he was actually the root of every single issue Brendon had. 

\---

“Then he, ugh, are you listening?” Brendon complained, frowning at Patrick from where he hung upside down on the couch. Patrick had his patient face on, resting his head on his fist, dutifully ignoring all the work Brendon knew he had to do. 

“Yes, B,” Patrick said. “I’m listening.”

“He’s all like _your instrumentals are exciting and refreshing,_ ” Brendon said, imitating Spencer’s voice as best he could. “Like, I know they are. You said they were good. But _then_ he says that he’s never heard lyrics like mine. Which is rude!”

“I don’t really think he meant it like that,” Patrick said. He sounded amused. Brendon scowled. “I think he was paying you a complement. Why are you so against Spencer?”

“He has a beard,” Brendon muttered. Patrick snorted. “And he’s a drummer.”

“You’re a drummer,” Patrick pointed out. “I’m a drummer. Why is drumming an issue?”

“He doesn’t play anything else,” Brendon said sourly. “Everyone else in the program is a multi instrumentalist. He just plays the drums.”

“He must be a hell of a drummer,” Patrick said thoughtfully. Brendon hurled a guitar pick at his head. “God, Bren. He seems nice. I don’t understand your vendetta.”

The door opened and Brendon scrambled to sit upright, hoping he didn’t look too guilty. Pete dropped his keys in the chipped dish by the door before cupping Patrick’s face and kissing him soundly. 

“Be nice,” Patrick whispered, inches from Pete’s lips, and Pete snorted.

“Hello, stalker,” he said, ruffling Brendon’s hair as he walked by. Brendon tried not to hunch in on himself, folding his arms uncomfortably. He didn’t want to bother Pete. If he bothered Pete, Pete might not let him come over anymore, and Brendon didn’t know what he’d do without Patrick. He had absolutely no one else.

“Hi, Pete,” Brendon said belatedly. He heard Pete open the fridge in the kitchen behind them and took a deep breath. “I should get home.”

“It’s dark,” Patrick said immediately. Brendon shrugged a shoulder. “Bren.”

“Patrick’s right, it’s dark,” Pete said, and the fridge door shut. Brendon couldn’t help the way his eyes widened in shock. “And it was snowing really hard. The transit is all down.”

“Um,” Brendon said. He watched Patrick make eye contact with Pete before Pete spoke again.

“So stay the night,” Pete said. “I don’t want it on my conscience when they find your frozen corpse.”

“That’s so sweet, babe,” Patrick said darkly. 

“Fine,” Pete said. “Stay the night, Brendon, because you’re welcome here. Except sleep in the spare room, you don’t need to sleep on the couch.”

“Um,” Brendon said, and Patrick flashed him a quick grin. “Okay.”

\---

Brendon maybe tiptoed less around Pete after that, especially since Pete gave him a key for a reason that Brendon didn’t fully understand. Sure, he was still pretty sure Pete hated him, or at least found him annoying, but it wasn’t like...Pete didn’t like…..

Pete wasn’t like his father, okay? Sometimes, it was almost like Pete cared. 

Brendon made himself believe that as he stood shivering in the snow outside his apartment building. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to sleep on the mattress someone vomited on two weeks ago. He didn’t want to go to sleep cold and wake up with his throat dry and hoarse. 

He wanted to play his guitar for a while, with just his ideas. He wanted to sleep soundly, in a bed, wanted to not have to worry about peeing halfway through the night. He wanted to go to Patrick’s, but he’d been there for the past three nights and it was rude.

Brendon hoisted his guitar further up on his back and sighed, breath spiraling in the air. He couldn’t go to the only place he wanted to go. How long could he take up a rehearsal room before they got mad? Could he _sleep_ in a rehearsal room?

“Yeah,” someone said next to him. “I hate my roommates, too.”

Brendon jerked in surprise, looking over with wide eyes. Immediately, that stupid, stupid warm and kind of electric feeling he was so used to began spreading, and he cleared his throat, hoping he sounded disinterested. 

“Hi, Spencer,” he said, but he knew instantly he’d failed. “Um. I don’t hate my roommates.”

It was mostly true. Brendon didn’t hate them. He just had nothing in common with them. 

Spencer grinned at him. He’d trimmed his beard, and Brendon hated that he could tell. He had his drum stick pack slung cross body, but otherwise, it was impossible to tell he was a music student. 

“How you gonna kill time?” Spencer asked. Brendon tried really hard to not look at him. If he looked at Spencer, it was hard to remind himself that Spencer was annoying and an outlier and--

“Wanna, like, grab coffee?” Spencer asked, after Brendon didn’t answer. 

Brendon meant to say no. He had the word primed and ready to go, but then Spencer grinned again and Brendon completely fell apart.

“Um,” he said, voice cracking. “Yeah.”

\---

**To: the patrick stump**   
_what if im on a date i dont want to be on_

That was totally a lie. Brendon kept an eye on Spencer at the counter, ordering their drinks while Brendon saved them a corner. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be on a date or whatever. It was that he didn’t want to like Spencer. 

He couldn’t like Spencer, because Spencer was popular and talented and had a million friends and pretending he could ever be interested in a spaz like Brendon would only end in heartache. 

Brendon didn’t want to feel bad like he did with Ryan again. He wasn’t dating, not until he got a record contract and paid Patrick back for everything he’d done. When Ryan left, Brendon got so low his music suffered. He couldn’t do that again. 

His phone buzzed.

**From: the patrick stump**   
_Leave? Why don’t you want to be on the date?_

_bcs,_ Brendon typed, still watching Spencer. He got a weird feeling right in the center of his stomach as Spencer laughed, but he tried to ignore it. _spencer is annoying._

**From: the patrick stump**   
_Right. Well when you’re done with your date that you don’t want to be on, stop by Pete’s shop and he’ll walk you home._

Home. 

Patrick meant his home.

Patrick meant Brendon could come home. 

He blinked furious tears out of his eyes and tried to paste on a face that didn’t scream out that Patrick was Brendon’s platonic soulmate.

“Here,” Spencer said, setting a coffee cup in front of Brendon. “There’s more syrup than coffee in that.”

“Good,” Brendon managed, then held out a $5. “Come on.”

“No can do,” Spencer said, smirking. “Let me enjoy buying coffee for a cute boy.”

Brendon flushed, probably ugly and red, but his heart kind of flip flopped and he looked down at his coffee quickly.

“Oh,” Brendon said, and it sounded strangled. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Spencer said, and Brendon looked up in time to see Spencer wink. 

Brendon cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee, trying to look anywhere but at Spencer. His gaze landed on Spencer’s drumstick pack and he spoke before he meant to.

“Drums were the first thing I learned,” Brendon said. “I think my parents thought it would calm me down, but it didn’t, so I switched to piano from Patrick, and then Patrick taught me guitar and then I got into De Paul. Sorry.”

“Who’s Patrick?” Spencer said, instead of sounding weirded out at all by Brendon’s word vomit. Brendon swallowed. 

“He’s,” Brendon said, somewhat haltingly. “He has this studio now. You know Soul Punk Studios? That’s his. But before, he was giving lessons, and my mom thought he was a good influence or whatever. I was sixteen. I stay with him sometimes.”

“Cool,” Spencer said, and he sounded like he meant it. “It would totally suck being here if my parents weren’t just a couple hours away.”

“My parents moved to Salt Lake City,” Brendon shrugged. “Right after I got into De Paul. When I said I wasn’t going to BYU, that was it.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said quietly. “That’s really shitty.”

“It’s alright,” Brendon said, because it mostly was. “That’s why I’m so glad Patrick’s still around.”

“I bet,” Spencer said. “My parents bought me a drum kit so I would stop breaking shit around the house.”

Brendon cracked a grin. 

“Let me guess,” he said. “First song was something punk rock and awful.”

“Worse,” Spencer said, eyes sparkling over the lid of his coffee. “It was My Chem.”

Brendon choked on his coffee.

“No way,” he said. “Absolutely no way. My first was Blink-182. What the fuck.”

“Brendon,” Spencer gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “You never told me you were pop punk trash, too!”

“All hail getting out of this town,” Brendon said, raising his coffee. Spencer lost it, laughing hard enough that his cheeks were red under his beard. Brendon couldn’t help the grin that crossed his face. 

“All jokes aside,” Spencer said, once his laughter died down. “You’re a really good musician, you know that?”

“Oh,” Brendon said, because he was an idiot that didn’t know how to take a damn complement. “Thanks?”

His voice cracked. Fuck. 

“I mean it,” Spencer said, with a soft smile. “I look forward to group day in thesis because I love hearing everything you do. It’s genuinely amazing.”

“You’re a kickass drummer,” Brendon offered. “Even if it’s weird that it’s all you play.”

Spencer snorted. 

“Well,” he said, and he sounded almost hopeful. “Maybe you could teach me guitar?”

“Um,” Brendon said, hating how hot his cheeks were, hating the slight shake in his hands. “Yeah. I need to pay you back for the coffee.”

“I’m just gonna keep buying it for you,” Spencer said with a wink. 

Brendon flushed before picking up his cup again and taking a long sip.

Maybe Brendon was wrong. Maybe this was a date Brendon actually did want to be on.

\---

It was warm in Pete’s shop once Brendon worked up the courage to actually go in. He was damp from the still-falling snow and the long walk. CTA was down again, which was perfect. Brendon loved walking in the snow until he was wet and freezing. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Meagan, Pete’s piercer said. She was leaning against the counter flipping through what looked like a portfolio, and the grin she gave Brendon was genuine. Brendon loved Meagan. 

“Hi,” Brendon said. 

“You can drop your stuff in the back,” Meagan said, tilting her head towards the door. “Pete’s working on his last appointment. Take off your coat, you look wet.”

“Okay,” Brendon said. He bumped the little swinging door open with his hip and walked behind the counter. He could hear the buzz of a tattoo machine and peeked into the ink room as he passed it. Pete was bent over the arm of a dude, filling in color it looked like. 

“Hey,” Pete said without looking up. “Earn your keep and look through my portfolio out front.”

“Okay,” Brendon said again. He opened the door to the lounge area and set his guitar and backpack by the saggy couch. With a sigh, he slid his coat off, too, relieved to find his shirt dry underneath. He’d forgotten a sweatshirt, so it was just a short sleeved t-shirt, which Patrick would lecture him about. 

He contemplated sitting on the couch again, but he knew from experience that the couch had a tendency to eat people alive, so he wandered out of the lounge instead, heading back to the front. 

Once Brendon got over his fear of Pete, he liked Pete’s shop. There was always new flash art on the walls, and Pete changed the lettering on the window at least once a month. This month it was a sweeping cursive: _Decaydance Tattoo._

Meagan handed him half of a giant chocolate chip cookie as he stepped back into the lobby. Brendon took a bite and reached for the portfolio Meagan had abandoned, assuming it was Pete’s.

“So pretend to be surprised,” Meagan said, looking like she absolutely couldn’t keep the secret any longer. “But Pete’s going to submit this to Best Ink.”

“No way,” Brendon said, a grin taking over his face. “He’ll totally get on.”

“I hope so,” Meagan said. “They have a bias against gay artists, but hopefully they’ll look past it. Pete definitely could win the whole thing.”

“Uh, duh,” Brendon said. Despite his weird fear of Pete, Brendon knew Pete was a damn good artist. Brendon hoped that one day he could have enough courage and money to ask for a tattoo from him. So far, Brendon’s only tattoo was the one he got when he was sixteen and trying hard to pretend he was an adult. It was a crooked piano on his arm, scarred and falling out in places because the artist was crap and Brendon had had no idea how to take care of it. 

Brendon flipped through Pete’s portfolio. Unsurprisingly, it contained some of his very best work. There was a portrait of Sinatra that Brendon wanted on his own body, recreations of album art, and page after page of gorgeous custom pieces. Brendon thought Best Ink would be stupid not to take him. 

“Bye, Pete!” the client said, breaking Brendon’s concentration. He waved before stepping into the lobby and winking at Brendon. “Hey, cutie. Who are you?”

“Um,” Brendon said, but was rescued. 

“Leave him alone, pervert,” Pete shouted, and the client cracked up. “See you in two weeks.”

“Yeah,” the client called back. He winked at Brendon again before pushing through the glass doors and leaving. The bell sounded in the suddenly quiet shop and Brendon looked up hesitantly as Pete stepped into the hallway, taking off his rubber gloves with a snap. He opened the cabinet and pulled out his disinfectant before glancing at Brendon. 

“Why are you wet?” Pete asked. “Did you walk here?”

“CTA was down,” Brendon said uncertainly. 

“Figures,” Pete said. “I’ll be back.”

Pete ducked back into the tattoo room and Brendon looked over at Meagan, eyes wide. Meagan snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“He acts like a real asshole,” she said fondly. “But it’s all a front. I promise he likes you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t bother with you no matter how much Patrick liked you. Relax a little. If he didn’t like you, you would really, really know it.”

“Okay,” Brendon said softly. Meagan grinned at him. 

“Promise,” she said. “Don’t forget to tell him how good his portfolio is.”

Brendon snorted before he could think too hard about it, and flipped to the next page just as Pete stepped back into the hallway. He walked into the lobby, stepping behind the counter and pulling the cash drawer out. 

“Count,” he said, putting it in front of Brendon and taking the portfolio back. “Thoughts?”

“You’re the best artist I know,” Brendon said honestly, and Pete rolled his eyes and ruffled Brendon’s hair. It was fond, though, Brendon could kind of see it now, so he took out the cash and started to count. 

He’d just hit two hundred when Pete interrupted, grabbing his wrist surprisingly gently before pulling his arm forward. 

“What's this?” he asked, and Brendon realized with horror that Pete was looking at his shitty, shitty tattoo. 

“Um,” Brendon said. “I was sixteen and trusted the wrong person.”

“I see that,” Pete said, but it was gentle, teasing. He swiped his thumb across the crooked lines and Brendon knew he was feeling the scar tissue. 

“I could fix it for you,” Pete offered. Brendon's eyes widened in shock and Pete smirked as he caught sight of him. “I can't have my stalker walking around with this. It'll make me look bad.”

Brendon couldn't help the smile that slowly spread across his face. He got it, kinda. Pete was teasing him, he was joking, but Brendon suddenly understood that Pete actually cared under there somewhere. 

“Um,” Brendon said again, because he was an idiot. “Yeah. Please. I wouldn't want to embarrass you.”

Pete grinned at him, eyes almost soft. It was like he cared about Brendon, as if anyone could care about Brendon. Brendon didn’t want to dwell on it, so he just ducked his head and Pete ruffled his hair again. 

“I’ll finish closing if you finish counting,” Pete offered. Brendon nodded and Pete let go of him. “Looks like we’ll get to walk home.”

“Yay,” Brendon managed, and took a deep breath. 

Everything was okay. Right?

\---

There was an innocent enough coffee cup on the table in Brendon’s rehearsal room. Brendon narrowed his eyes as he finished signing in next to his reservation, wondering if it was poison. Would people at De Paul poison their competition?

Brendon heard Patrick call him paranoid in his head, so he sighed and opened the door, approaching the offending cup carefully. 

He could just make out his name on the side, and more writing. He fumbled with his bag for a moment before producing his glasses and unceremoniously shoving them onto his face. The writing under his name came into clearer focus and Brendon felt his cheeks heat up. 

_how many coffees do i need to buy you before you’ll go out with me for real? from, just the drummer._

Brendon took a sip of the coffee in order to actively avoid replying out loud to nobody. He had a number of stupid responses to that question, like _yes_ or maybe _i like you a lot_ and he should keep those to himself because they’d only embarrass him. He pulled out his phone.

**To: the patrick stump**   
_so what if a boy left me coffee and asked me out_

Brendon took another sip of the coffee before fighting with his guitar case and freeing the instrument. He tuned it on autopilot, one eye on his phone. He began strumming without thinking about it, cheeks heating up again as he realized what he was singing.

_I’ve been spending all my time, just thinking ‘bout you  
I don’t know what to do, I think I’m falling--_

Brendon abruptly stopped playing as his phone lit up. He resisted the urge to look behind him--he was alone and the room was soundproof. The only one that could hear how dumb he was being was himself.

**From: the patrick stump**   
_Do you want to go out with Spencer?_

Brendon scowled. 

_i didnt say it was spencer_

**From: the patrick stump**   
_Right, it’s some other boy you can’t stop talking about._

_youre mean_

Brendon put his phone back down again and mindlessly pressed his fingers against the frets of the guitar, mapping out chords while his mind raced. 

Did he want to go out with Spencer? Well, obviously. But should he? Spencer was like, a prince, and that made Brendon basically the stable boy, and princes didn’t go out with stable boys. 

Brendon was being ridiculous. He should just say yes. Because if he said yes, then he’d go out with Spencer and Spencer would figure out that Brendon was annoying and hard to put up with and then he would stop being sweet and funny and--

**From: the patrick stump**   
_You like Spencer and he likes you. I really don’t see the issue here._

_because._

**From: the patrick stump**   
_You can’t even think of a reason._

Brendon didn’t answer. If he answered, he’d be forced to tell Patrick that he had a point, and he didn’t want to concede to Patrick. 

He sighed, strumming his guitar with more force than was probably necessary. This was dumb. This whole thing was dumb. Spencer wasn’t supposed to like Brendon. Brendon was supposed to graduate in the shadows of his peers and then make a name for himself when he was less awkward and hyper. 

But Brendon kind of liked the feeling of _being liked_. It was somewhat new and exciting for him. Brendon was ridiculous, a romantic at heart, and it was just….kind of nice to know there was someone out there that liked him enough to figure out his rehearsal room schedule and leave him coffee. It was weird and fun and amazing that Spencer just liked Brendon, without expecting him to change like Ryan had. 

Brendon strummed through the opening chords of the commercial jingle he’d helped Patrick write before swallowing. 

He put the guitar in the stand and poked his head out the rehearsal room door. The hallway was deserted, so Brendon took the clipboard with reservations off the wall and flipped through it. 

Spencer was on there, for room three, at five. It was a little after three now. Brendon figured if he sacrificed his practice time this once, he could probably get to the Starbucks and back before Spencer’s slot started. 

He felt giddy, sort of excited as he put the guitar away. He was doing this. He was really, actually doing this. He grabbed his phone and took a deep breath. 

_random question but can i borrow $5_

**From: the patrick stump**   
_:-)_

Brendon hated him.

\---

“Did you say yes to your boy?” Pete asked as Brendon stomped the snow off his shoes on the mat just inside Decaydance. Brendon scowled. 

“Tell Patrick he sucks,” Brendon said. Pete just laughed at him. 

“Well,” Pete said, and Brendon clapped his hands over his ears. “You walked right into that one.”

“Whatever,” Brendon said grouchily. “I left coffee in his rehearsal room like he left for me. Do you think that’s dumb? That’s probably dumb. God.”

“If you backtrack any further, you’ll hurt yourself,” Pete said, amused. “Go put your stuff in the back. You ready?”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. His heart kind of skipped a beat. “Um. Thank you.”

Pete nodded, so Brendon made his way down the hallway. He’d just reached the door to the lounge when Pete spoke again. 

“For the record, I don’t think it’s dumb,” he said, and Brendon flushed. “Now hurry up.”

“Okay,” Brendon said, fighting a grin. He opened the door and dumped his guitar and backpack unceremoniously (but still carefully) by the couch before taking off his coat and sweatshirt and heading back towards Pete. 

“You don’t have appointments today?” Brendon asked. Pete shook his head.

“Walk in day today,” he said, gesturing for Brendon’s arm. “And you are a walk in. God. What am I supposed to do with this mess?”

“You’re the expert,” Brendon said before he could stop himself. Pete rolled his eyes and flicked his nose. He laid tracing paper over the piano and made an outline before switching on the light table. 

“Did you eat?” Pete asked, sketching across the outline. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. He’d managed to scrounge up enough change to get a muffin at Starbucks, too, so he was actually telling the truth. 

“How’s this?” Pete asked. He held out the sketch and Brendon took it, looking it over. 

It was beautiful. It didn’t even have colors yet and it was so beautiful. Brendon traced over the flowers before swallowing hard. 

“Yeah,” he said, then, before he could scream some sense at himself, he threw his arms around Pete. “Thank you.”

After a moment, Pete hugged him back, a soft squeeze. Brendon didn’t want to cry, especially not in a goddamn tattoo shop, but he’d never had this, okay? He spent so long sure Pete hated him that all of this meant a lot. It meant Brendon could try and change his mind.

“Alright,” Pete said. “Let me get the stencil ready. You cool if I save money by using old needles?”

Brendon grinned and Pete grinned back before grabbing stencil paper and tracing the design. Brendon held out his arm when Pete gestured for it and watched Pete smooth the stencil on. 

“Alright stalker,” Pete said, pulling the rubber gloves on like some mad scientist from a horror movie. “Time to make you presentable. Keep breathing.”

“Okay,” Brendon said, and Pete picked up his tattoo machine. 

The first line hurt, like scratching a sunburn, but Brendon could deal with it. Belatedly, he remembered Pete’s instructions and sucked in a deep breath. 

“Tell me about little drummer boy,” Pete said, and Brendon swallowed. 

“His name is Spencer,” Brendon said. “He’s in my program. He lives in my building. I’m pretty sure, at least.”

“Ah yes,” Pete said. “The building you never go to?”

“Um,” Brendon said, cheeks hot. Pete snorted. 

“I can’t say I blame you,” Pete said. “Not when the choice is a bed versus a mattress in a living room. How much do you pay to sleep on a floor?”

“Five hundred a month,” Brendon said. “It was all I could afford.”

“Five hundred?” Pete asked. “That’s criminal. You might as well get your shit out before next month.”

“What?” Brendon asked, voice cracking. He had to be hallucinating, because it _sounded_ like Pete was suggesting Brendon just move in, and that was ridiculous. Why the hell would he say that? Why the hell would he want Brendon around 24/7?

“What, was the tattoo machine too loud?” Pete asked. “I said get your shit out before they charge you for next month. You think I somehow don’t know you’re surviving on grants? I see no reason for you to pay to live somewhere when we have a room you can stay in for free.”

“I can’t,” Brendon protested. “I can’t stay for free.”

“Excuse me,” Pete said, sounding amused. “My word is law. You can and you will. If you want.”

“Um,” Brendon said. “Thank you.”

It was whispered and sort of hoarse, but Pete smiled at him anyway, a real smile, not a grin, not a smirk. Like he cared.

“You’re not allowed to have boys over,” Pete said, and Brendon laughed out loud. He listened to the tattoo machine buzz for a moment while he poked around at the lump in his throat, testing to see if he could really bring himself to ask what he wanted to ask. 

“How did you meet Patrick?” Brendon asked. Well. That was easy. 

Pete wiped at the tattoo and sighed. 

“Therapy,” Pete said. “Group therapy.”

“Oh,” Brendon said. 

“Thankfully,” Pete said. “We’re both in a much better place now. He’s got Soul Punk and I’ve got the shop and you stalk us so it’s all good.”

Pete flashed him a grin at that. 

“You’re gonna make it onto Best Ink,” Brendon said, and Pete sighed again. 

“Meagan’s got a big mouth,” he said. “I hope so. You’re not off the hook, by the way.”

“Off the hook?” Brendon asked. 

“I want more details,” Pete said. “Little drummer boy.”

Brendon felt his cheeks get hot. 

“He’s a drummer,” he said. 

“No way,” Pete deadpanned. Brendon snorted. 

“He’s been in my senior sem all year,” Brendon said. “He always has something to say about my thesis. Like I care.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Pete said. 

“I always wondered how he got in because he only plays the drums,” Brendon continued. 

“Must be a good drummer,” Pete said. 

“Can you and Patrick stop having a hive mind?” Brendon complained. “Anyway, he was really annoying until suddenly he just wasn’t. I don’t know. I might have a brain tumor or something.”

“I’ll say nice things at your funeral,” Pete said. “Are you going out with him?”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “I think.”

“You better listen to what he has to say about your thesis, then,” Pete said. 

“The day I listen to a single instrumentalist is the day I die,” Brendon said, and Pete just laughed. Brendon felt a smile stretch across his face even as Pete’s laughter died down and he leaned back to survey Brendon’s tattoo so far. 

He felt warm. Maybe Patrick was right. 

It kind of seemed like Pete did care about him.

\---

Pete issued several dire threats about Brendon and tattoo care before Brendon left for his stupid date the next evening. Patrick just poked fun at him for picking out the one nice shirt Brendon owned, but if Brendon was going on an actual date, he was going to do it right. 

And that’s how he wound up nervously fidgeting in front of the Thai place he’d picked in a frantic haze. Offhandedly, he realized he didn’t do a whole lot of walking around Chicago without his guitar. He felt kind of empty.

His tattoo itched under his coat, but Pete’s stern voice halted any attempts at scratching it. He absently kicked at a patch of snow and took a deep breath. 

He could do this. He could totally do this. He absolutely should not call Spencer and pretend to be in a coma for the rest of his life. 

“Hey, Brendon!”

Brendon looked up with wide eyes. All at once, he’d forgotten absolutely everything he’d rehearsed all night long, practically forgot his own name. 

Spencer looked like something straight out of a goddamn romance novel. He was wearing a nice coat and what looked like actual jeans as opposed to the sweats most of the music department favored. His eyes were bright and beard neat and Brendon tried his best to just not fucking faint. 

“Hi, Spencer,” he mumbled, glancing away as Spencer grinned at him. 

“You wanna go in?” Spencer asked, and Brendon looked back at Spencer in time to see him incline his head towards the restaurant. Brendon took another deep breath and nodded. 

Spencer grabbed his hand and Brendon grinned kind of helplessly, heart pounding. Spencer wasn’t wearing gloves, just like Brendon, and his cold hands were calloused from drumsticks and _big_. A flush darkened Brendon’s cheeks as his mind unwittingly wandered to other big things. 

He coughed and let Spencer lead him into the warm restaurant. 

The hostess sat them and Brendon stared at the menu like he was absorbing a word of it. He would just order whatever Spencer was having, because making any decisions at all seemed beyond his capabilities. 

“Is it totally weird if I told you I couldn’t decide what to wear?” Spencer asked, taking off his coat. Brendon followed suit, hoping his shirt wasn’t wrinkled. He sounded like his mom. 

“No,” Brendon said, swallowing. “I only own one nice shirt, so the decision was easy.”

Spencer grinned. 

“I own many,” he said. “But I still went with this one.”

This one being a slightly worn, snug _Black Parade_ t-shirt, and Brendon burst out laughing before he could help himself. 

“That’s great,” he said, and Spencer grinned almost proudly. “You win best outfit, officially.”

“Thank you very much,” Spencer said, giving Brendon a playful half bow. “You look really cute when you laugh.”

Brendon flushed, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. 

“You always make me laugh,” he offered, and Spencer grinned again. “Like, all the time. Even when I tried to tell myself you were annoying because I thought you couldn’t like me.”

“How could I not like you?” Spencer asked, confused, like the mere idea was bizarre. 

“Um,” Brendon said uncertainly. “Because I’m me?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said slowly. “And I like you.”

“But I’m not like your other friends,” Brendon argued. “I’m hyper and loud and annoying. And you’re, like. Cool. And hot. And like so out of my league.”

“Oh,” Spencer said. “Well, I better correct that idea.”

Before Brendon could reply, Spencer leaned across the tiny table and pressed their lips together, softly, lingering. After what felt like an eternity of Brendon hearing his heart pound and feeling a little dizzy, Spencer sat back, a satisfied look on his face.

“Um,” Brendon said, totally coherently. 

“You’re the one out of my league, Brendon Urie,” Spencer said, and Brendon’s throat went dry. He glanced down at the menu before looking back up at Spencer. He couldn’t talk himself out of it, he just acted, leaning across, too, and kissing Spencer again. 

Spencer grinned against Brendon’s lips, one hand sneaking up to cup Brendon’s face, and Brendon sort of thought maybe this whole date thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

\----

“How’s little drummer boy?” Pete called as Brendon shut the door behind him. 

“Oh, shut up,” Brendon complained, and Pete and Patrick laughed at him.

\----

**Author's Note:**

> i live to serve @ smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
